Chapter Two

A Stepmother's Hate For Hayat.

Hayat's Pov

Each day waking up for prayers is a gift from Allah to us. Walking up and thanking Him for making us live another day.

Alhamdullilah.

Today is the first day of the year that I go back to work as a teacher. It is something that both my mother and I love to do and that is to teach.

"Ya Allah, help my family understand and to listen to reason. I pray to you to give me the guidance that I need to get through every day of my life while living with them".

Prayers are what keep me alive and sane in this world.

My mother named me Hayat (meaning her Life). She always told me that I was her life.

She was the kindest, most caring, and most loving soul that anyone had ever met.

Except she died when I was barely a teenager due to Cancer. Every prayer is dedicated to her and my father.

Then my father married Maryam because he thought that I needed a motherly figure in my life. Maryam came with her daughter from her first marriage to stay at the house.

"Hayat, hurry up and go make breakfast. You insolent child", my stepmother yells at me even though she is in the same room as I am.

I pray every day for my family especially my stepmother who hates me without a reason. Ever since she came to live with me and my papa with her daughter when they got married two years after my mother passed away.

I finish praying gather my praying mat and the Quran and put them in their place.

Taking a deep breath, I walk downstairs to the kitchen and start cooking breakfast. My stepmother walks in within five minutes of my father walking in.

She pretends to care for me in front of my father but behind his back, she bullies me and threatens me.

" Hayat, habibty let me help you", She moves towards me knowing that my father saw what she was doing to me.

"It is okay, I am almost done", I tell her. She smiles at me with her fake smile.

" Asalam Alaikum, how are you doing?", my papa asks as he lets himself know.

"Waleikum salaam, good Alhamdullilah. Just trying to help Hayat but she says that she will do it herself", she tells him smirking and trying to get him to scold me.

"Hayat, you should've let her help", he tells me.

" I am done, Papa. It's not much", I reply to him smiling even though the smile is a fake one.

"Okay, Habibty", he tells me kissing my forehead and leaving me with her.

As soon as she sees that my papa has gone, she moves closer grabbing my arm and pinching it making me cry.

" Next time, don't be late in making breakfast", she tells me.

I knew that a bruise would form where she pinched me.

She then left me alone in the kitchen.

"Ya Allah, grant me, patient and strength to endure this. I forgive her".

This is my daily dua for her and myself.

I put the breakfast on the table, and I go call my papa to come and eat.

As I was walking to the study I could hear my stepmother and her daughter, talking about me.

" I wish I could get rid of her for good. She has been nothing but a burden to me. I married Ali for his money and for us to have a luxurious life", Mariam tells her daughter.

"How about finding her an old husband?" her daughter Jameela suggested to her.

"That's a great idea but how do I get her to accept the proposal?", Mariam asks.

"Mother, dear. She would do anything for her father. He is her weakness, remember?", Jameela tells her mother.

" My daughter is a genius", she hugs her daughter.

If she dresses well and has good manners then maybe she would be a genius.

I walked by them and went to the study where my papa was. I knocked and entered.

The smell of cinnamon and cardamom lingers in the air. It was my mother's favorite scent.

I know that he is always thinking of her.

He always told me that she was his first true love. My parents loved each other.

My mama Aliya.

"Papa, come and eat. Enough working. Take a break", I told him trying to get him up from his chair.

" Fine, My Hayat. Let's go and have breakfast", he gets up and walks to the door.

She never let me eat with them. I had to make an excuse for my papa so that he couldn't get suspicious.

Whenever Papa was around she made me call her aunt but when he wasn't at home she made me call madam.

"Papa, I have already eaten. You go ahead and I will go and get ready for work", I tell him.

Thankfully he agreed and left for the dining room. I went back to my room to prepare for work.

After showering and dressing, I gathered my things and walked down the stairs hoping not to see them.

Thankfully I found my father in his office working. I walked inside to tell him that I was leaving for my job.

I am a kindergarten teacher.

"Papa, don't work too much. I have to go now and I will see you in the evening when I come back In shaa Allah", I tell him kissing his forehead.

"Okay, habibty. Take care of yourself and call me if you need anything", he replies. I walked out of the house praying that I wasn't late for the taxi to arrive.

I was thankful to have this job because I didn't want to stay in the house with my stepmother and stepsister.

Alhamdullilah.

My papa might be rich but my stepmother never allowed me to have a car she allowed her daughter to do whatever she wanted.

Alhamdullilah.

Taking a taxi every day is expensive, so sometimes I take a bus because it is easier for me to reach my workplace.

But today was one of those days when I took the bus to the school where I work.

"Asalam Aleikum, uncle", I greeted the bus driver as I usually do because he knows me and that's a plus.

"Waleikum salaam, my dear. How are you?" he replies to me. I answered him and walked onto the bus.

I walked to my usual seat and sat down. It will take about half an hour to reach my workplace. But it would have taken more time if I had walked.

I knew that I had to call my best friend, Sameera Malik. She has been like a sister to me more than my stepsister has.

I sent her a message telling her that we would meet in the afternoon at our favourite café.

I became a teacher because of my mother, Aliya, who loved to teach and would always smile no matter what happened in life because she used to say Alhamdullilah.

Because that's more important than complaining.